Between the method of her
rising from sleep
and the glass waiting
to be filled, she gets up,
parts the curtains, watches
herself dream another April and
back in the vestibule for
a final shot before moving
out, or past the turnstile then up
the stairs, out of
the subway stop, the play
waiting to be watched, the crowd
unintelligible, the ticket
torn and kept in her coat pocket,
the glass waiting to be
filled with the view
returning the fact of
her and April with a final
shot of leaves where
the daffodils used to be,
the click of the turnstile like
the sound of her
body pulling out of the
blankets to step
by the curtains, the ticket to
a way out, the parting
a method, the water,
the empty glass, a fact.